


Hamish

by BaffledFox



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:51:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaffledFox/pseuds/BaffledFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble collection.</p><p>How Hamish came to live at 221B and beyond. His life depicted in a series of snapshots; no particular order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hamish

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notice:
> 
> This is just going to be a collection of one-shots based on my own head canon of Hamish Watson-Holmes, with a dash of Alex Moran-Moriarty thrown in. Pairings will include, JohnLock, Mystrade, MorMor, and Halex. It will be a wide range of genres, but should be PG-13 for the most part, though rating may increase in later one-shots.
> 
> Thank you for reading, if anyone plans on reading? I posted this mainly for my own enjoyment.

They had dealt with a lot.

Moriarty, the fall, the aftermath of everything.

Years to piece their life together and then Irene pops up.

Like a specter from a time beyond, something both of them had nearly forgotten(or maybe that was John just thinking wishfully; Sherlock didn't forget, at least not about something he deemed important and he was sure Irene had a prime spot in his mind palace). So, here this woman just waltzed into their flat, dressed in red, making sure she was right under Sherlock's nose as she talked. From the lack of shock on Sherlock's face; what John had known the past few years proved true, that she hadn't been dead, and the detective had known. Of course he had known. He followed her now around the flat like a puppy, entranced, and John just stood there, arms folded, hoping she'd come up with something interesting to say and then just leave.

But then the words:

Sherlock. Father. Hamish.

All appeared in the same sentence and John was sputtering and gesturing to the two of them and Irene had the gall to touch Sherlock's arm and to look at him with that venomous smile of hers. Those clever eyes telling him all he needed to know. Luckily, this time, Sherlock was appropriately shocked and began to ask questions.

What it came down to, was that she had sex with him while he was drugged(but she insisted she couldn't be blamed, because how could anyone pass up that opportunity?), but from that she got pregnant, kept the child, and actually named it after John's suggestion of Hamish; and that pissed the doctor off more. John was asking questions, what she wanted, why she even brought it up, that he and Sherlock were doing just fine thank you very much and how the detective wouldn't just run off to play father-

No, no, you have it all wrong. She smiled, walking slowly around the room.

Moriarty's name came up.

Apparently things were getting dangerous, and she couldn't balance her 'social' work as well as Moriarty's demands and she actually told them she believed she was going to die soon. So nonchalant, like discussing the weather; her number was going to come up, and she couldn't just leave Hamish all alone, so she came here-

Asking that they take on the responsibility, be the legal guardians, when she ultimately 'kicks the bucket', so flirty, even that giggle, it was obscene.

Sherlock was still processing.

John was red in the face.

Irene took that moment to open the door and guide the child inside. He was four, maybe almost five. He had Sherlock's eyes and wild hair, but his body type was all soft angles, like Irene; his milk-white skin and narrow bird-like face, making those wide blue-green eyes look even bigger than they were. But, John despaired; there wasn't any childish innocence there, behind those eyes, it was gone, and even now he just kept looking at his shoes and picking at the end of the red scarf that was tied around his neck(too big, nearly on the floor, obviously Irene's-it matched her dress).

John was the one who agreed; Sherlock was still contesting the claim, even though the evidence was right in front of him.

It would be another year before Hamish came under their full custody.

Just dropped on the doorstep one day, with a note pinned to his jacket.

I believe this is yours. - JMx


	2. Ordinary

Hamish was in seventh grade when his father first decided to take him on a crime scene. He already knew the Latin names for everything, also knew two other languages(though sometimes he got words mixed up). He had passed his classes thus far with high marks but he still foundered in math. He wasn't a genius by any means but he was smart, perceptive and relatively clever. He had been practicing his deductive skills since he had came into the household permanently at age seven. He wasn't perfect, and most of his practice had been on his dad.

John did not approve of Hamish seeing death so young, afraid it might trigger any lost memories of his mother's murder(which no one knew the exact details of). But, Sherlock had protested, told him to not be so ordinary, that it was merely another test, an experiment.

John didn't like that either; that Sherlock still didn't view Hamish as anything but a social experiment. Sherlock just didn't have the capacity, Hamish was the equivalent of an intelligent house pet as far as the detective was concerned.

So, in the fourth month of his 7th grade school year Hamish was picked up for the first time by his father Sherlock Holmes.

Hamish was experiencing a type of excitement mixed with fear; his heart beat painfully in his chest. Sherlock gestures for him and he trotted obediently into the cab. His father slid in next to him, his gaze forward.

"Been practicing?" His heavy flat voice asked.

"Yes," Hamish smiled just slightly, his hands tucked in his lap, "I know most of the students, and I've figured which teachers are having affairs."

Sex was another taboo topic with his dad, but he didn't know exactly how desensitized little Hamish was to death and sex; his mother being a dominatrix and having been raised somewhat by Jim and Sebastian when Irene was being used elsewhere.

John was trying to preserve an innocence Hamish had never had the luxury of having.

Sherlock knew, the only reason Hamish was remotely interesting was because he was damaged; was because when he looked into his eyes he didn't see a mindless child, but an echo of himself. Intelligence in a different form, the fact that he wasn't naturally a genius made this experiment all the more fun. If he could teach him, a relatively normal person such a skill, perhaps there was hope for the dull public.

The taxi pulled to a halt at the edge of a road on the cusp of the country.

Hamish had dozed from the long drive and Sherlock shoved him awake before he stepped from the vehicle. There was crime scene tape strung like streamers around the front of the building. An audience had gathered, the building evacuated or at least the floor the murder was on. Lestrade waited for Sherlock but immediately frowned when he saw the little boy trailing in the detectives wake.

"Sherlock, you can't being Hamish up there-"

Sherlock paused and whirled on the silver haired man, his colorless eyes narrow, "I thought you needed me, I suppose I can just go home then, I look forward to watching the evening news-"

Lestrade put his hands up, "Fine alright, fine." He set his jaw, glancing to Hamish who knew better than to gape at adults when they were speaking. Lestrade stepped into Sherlock's space, "I thought you and John had an agreement, at least not until high school. Christ Sherlock, can you imagine what the press will say? A child on a crime scene?"

"I don't believe Hamish is your business." Sherlock said, staring straight at Lestrade with that fierce look he only got when he and dad were having a row - or when Mycroft came over.

"He actually is my business when he steps on the crime scene," Lestrade said huffily, "Not to mention he is my nephew."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, losing patience, "What do you think will happen? He'll bounce up and down on the corpse? He'll slip in the blood?" His tone had risen, "He's not an idiot and he knows his way around a corpse."

Hamish had glanced up then, just in time to catch Lestrade's pitying look. Everyone gave him that look eventually; it was nothing new.

Hamish didn't pity himself, he was happy, but no one understood it; no one understood his life at 221B Baker street was the only real good memories he had and he'd do anything to keep them. He wanted Sherlock to look at him with pride, like John did when he got good marks, he wanted his father to notice him. Really notice, and be proud.

Lestrade gave up, swinging his arm dramatically for them to enter.

Sherlock snapped his fingers as if calling a dog to his heels and Hamish quickly followed.

Scotland yard talked behind their backs but luckily Hamish was no longer listening.

They took the lift to the fourth floor to room 308. The door was open, crime scene tape strung up here too. The police had finished, it was just the two of them as they entered.

The smell to hit first was the scent of decay, then the smell of old blood. There was candles everywhere but they hardly helped.

The body was in the center of the room, splayed at an odd angle, face up, naked, a woman.

Sherlock had stood just beyond the blood stain, the most dominant one on the floor. His head was level, his eyes swept the entire space three times. He had seen everything in this room, but there was more to see, surely. Sherlock had his hands tucked behind his back, he tapped his fingers, "What do you see."

The test, it was starting now.

Hamish cleared his throat and tried to make his observations. His soft pitched voice lilted as he spoke, obviously nervous, "Time of death is two days maybe more, rigor," He crouched down, the nudity of the woman not bothering him, but Sherlock had taken him to the morgue many times before to deduce corpses, he was beyond it now. "The paleness of the skin, the blood settle, the pull at the fingernails-"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded slightly, "Approximately two days, could be more or less, the temperature of the room is hardly ideal, the thermostat was up rather high but it has been raining, cold, could be the victim's doing."

Hamish smiled slightly.

"That tells us little." Sherlock said evenly.

Right.

Hamish continued, "Defensive wounds, but not too many, blow to the skull, she may have knew them. There wasn't forced entry."

"No, there wasn't." Sherlock confirmed, "Do you know what object killed her?"

Hamish was quiet, staring at the woman's smashed in skull. Bits of brain matter were in her hair, skull fragments-matted blood. Hamish looked around himself, unable to spot anything that looked heavy enough or bloody enough. Blood spatter told him she had been murdered here and not in another room. "Killer could have taken it with him."

"No, he didn't."

First mistake. Second, Sherlock had already confirmed it being a man.

Hamish frowned, "A man?"

"Of course it's a man. She was a woman before she was a corpse. Her makeup to what you can see of it is fresh, her clothes, they were cut off after death, the fragments are under the bed, you can see the severed bra strap. It wasn't rape, she was dead before the clothes were cut." Sherlock sighed heavily, "A message, she was probably an adulterer, or at least cheating, there's a shadow of a ring on her ring finger. Taken it off, or it was stolen but I believe we'll find the ring in the room. In a drawer, a box," Sherlock waved his hand, "Hamish, tell me what the weapon was."

Hamish floundered, he hadn't gathered so much, his knowledge was basic, surface level. He felt foolish, young, he hid his face from his father. "I don't know. I know it's heavy-"

"No, you assume it's heavy because of the damage. The object doesn't have to be heavy if the user exerts enough force. This is how we know it's a man, muscular, because he used the bottom of that snow globe on her dresser. He cleaned it, but you can see the indentation of that right leg of it, distinct, in her forehead. He didn't notice, just like you didn't."

Hamish was quiet, feeling light headed all of a sudden from the smell of death.

"You can tell me about a corpse but you can't tell me about the murder." It was a damning statement.

"I'm sorry."

"No need," Sherlock waved him off, "It's not something to be sorry over, you're just ordinary, everyone is ordinary." He said in a tight tone before he turned from the room, his disappointment palpable because Sherlock had been so sure Hamish was ready.

He had been wrong. Maybe he would never be ready.

The car ride was long, quiet, they didn't look at each other.

They walked up the stairs to the flat, John was waiting, he was angry. Greg had called, told him everything.

They fought, Hamish went to his room.

He heard Sherlock shout it was all wrong, Hamish failed, he was ordinary.

John left, slammed the door.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, Hamish could hear the sound of glass, test tubes, the angry slam of the fridge.

Hamish sat in the center of his bed and stared at the wall.

Ordinary.

He was ordinary.


	3. Alex Moran-Moriarty

Hamish was eight years old when he met this boy named Alex.

John had gone to work; Sherlock was in the kitchen with his experiments. It had been a lazy week, nothing exciting, nothing that Sherlock had rambled on about in that way of his(when he forgot John had left and he just had everything to say to him—in those moments Hamish would sit in John's chair and watch his father and pretend it was him he was talking to), Jim's name had only popped up a handful of times, but even those handfuls had John's jaw clench.

Jim, that was someone Hamish only remembered in his nightmares. He hadn't seen the man since he had gone to be babysat every now and then when his mother was away on 'business'. Most times he was left with Sebastian, and even more times than naught, he was left alone in a warehouse until he was picked up.

That is to say, the week was slow and boring until there was a knock at the door.

Hamish had currently been sitting on the sofa, watching the television, still in his pajamas(blue with a bumblebee print), but it was Sunday and he was allowed to laze around on Sundays, usually he sat with John, but his dad was busy this week-end. The knock at the door was unusual, and it turned Hamish's attention. Sherlock was still busy, he hadn't even noticed.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Hamish's bright eyes turned to Sherlock, "Should I get that?"

Sherlock changed a slide, leaned back over the microscope.

Hamish frowned, but that really wasn't unusual either. Most the times John had to remind Sherlock someone else lived in the flat with them. He scooted off the couch, shuffling across the carpet, it was only nine in the morning, and if it were Mrs. Hudson she would have just walked in. Maybe uncle Greg, or uncle Mycroft; they hadn't been around in a while. He reached up for the handle, twisted the knob and froze at the vision that greeted him.

"Hamish." Jim stood in the doorway, dressed in black, the only point of color the white tie and ruby tie pin. All sharp angles and contrasting monochrome, he smiled that predatory smile, his hand rested atop Hamish's curls and the boy was too stunned to form a response, "I assume your father is home." His high lilting voice picked up a notch, pointedly calling Sherlock out.

Hamish tipped sideways where Jim pushed him out of the way, "Kitchen." He managed a mumble, bracing on the door. Jim was never his favorite person, if he ever had a choice, he would pick to stay out with Sebastian. Jim got bored, his moods were violent, and he never had a kind word to say. Sebastian was quiet, and being ignored was definitely better than being noticed by Moriarty.

As Hamish stood in the wake of James, he noticed a figure at the bottom of the stairs, just standing; his back was turned to him. A boy, tall, from this angle he couldn't see his face, or judge a proper age because he looked too big to be his same age; but his clothing style, was definitely of someone younger. Close cropped blonde hair, tanned skin, black wind breaker, dark wash jeans, and sneakers. Hamish was still hanging on the doorknob, completely quiet in his observation; noticing a tiger sticker near the heel of the boy's left sneaker.

"Alex!" Came Jim's shrill chirp.

"Coming. Christ." The boy murmured, his tone definitely that of a child, when he turned, Hamish was struck by the impossible green of his eyes; they looked like his, what he saw in the mirror every day. Only, they were different than his, sharp, very defined, maybe even hateful. There was no sadness there, no pity, but there was no innocence either. He started up the steps, never breaking eye contact and Hamish looked down to the boy's shoes as he approached.

There was blood on his sneakers.

Hamish bit his lips, fighting a chill.

"What're you looking at?" He asked, his words gruff, like sandpaper as he pointedly shoved his shoulder into the brunette's.

Hamish jarred into the door, "You." He said, not entirely defiant, but it was rather obvious Alex was the only focal point here.

The blonde boy paused, it was then Hamish noticed how small he was in comparison. This boy couldn't be much older, now that he got a look at his face(he had a lot of freckles), had to be nine, at the most, ten, but the way he held himself, Hamish was reminded a lot of Sebastian. On guard, always ready for a fight; Hamish was sure this boy had a temper, and he definitely didn't want to be on the other side of it. "Hamish Watson-Holmes." He said in a mocking manner, "Heard so much about you."

Hamish still hadn't closed the door; the murmurings of Jim and Sherlock mere background noise, "You have?"

"Of course." He rolled his shoulders, "You and Sherlock is all my father talks about."

"I don't know who you are."

"Should I be offended?"

Hamish flushed, "Is that blood on your shoes?" He pointed quickly, having not forgotten his previous observation.

"If it is?"

Hamish didn't look up, "Is it yours?"

Alex laughed, it wasn't a kind sound, "I think you know the answer to that."

Jim slid off the kitchen table, his hand on Sherlock's shoulder for balance. The detective only looked mildly bothered, still wearing his protective lab gear; he finally looked over to the children through his goggles. "I must be off. Surely you don't mind watching Alex. He's an angel, I assure you." Jim laughed at his own joke as he walked over; patting Alex's head like you would a pet, "Don't play too rough now. Sebastian will pick you up later."

Alex walked into the living room, and Hamish finally shut the door.

Of course Moriarty only used these play dates as excuses to see Sherlock(Hamish was aware from later visits); always coming when John was gone, and always sending Sebastian when John came home. John would get angry over it, but Sherlock didn't refuse Jim, and so Hamish's first real friend would eventually become this Alex Moran-Moriarty.

The boy he had met under mundane circumstances; the child of the first and second most dangerous men in England. The boy with blood on his shoes and hate in his heart. Hamish would later find that Alex was the son of a whore, a byproduct of Sebastian's indulgences; the woman was dead, and it was only by chance that Alex wound up on Moriarty's doorstep at all. Jim had agreed to house him, if he could prove useful, he viewed Alex as just another employee and used him wherever he could. They had a lot in common; Hamish would come to care about Alex, a little too much, and Alex would find his humanity in Hamish.

They would be the death of each other one day.


	4. First Kiss

It was Tuesday, fresh into the new year of sixth grade(seventh for Alex, well, second year of seventh since he had been held back). He had known Alex off and on for the past two years, he wouldn't say they were friends, but they knew each other and they spent a lot of time together(good and bad). So, they were something anyway. Maybe friends, Hamish supposed.

It had started out a day like any other, they were on the playground(the jungle gym), and Hamish was berating Alex about his grades.

"You don't want to repeat another year do you?"

"I don't see how it's your business."

"You don't apply yourself."

Yeah sure, Mr. D in math."

Hamish bristled and Alex shot him a grin. Hamish was sitting high on a bar, Alex's feet were planted on the pavement and he was leaning on a beam under Hamish. He had to look up into the sun to get eye contact and Hamish made a point to move his shadow so the light glared down at him.

Alex hissed and ducked, "Prick."

"Do you want to repeat school forever?"

"Christ, Hamish, this conversation is annoying."

"Do you?"

Alex grabbed a rock and threw it(it almost hit a girl playing hop scotch).

"Don't." Hamish warned, the blonde just took up another projectile and shot it off; it hit the back of a boy walking by.

Alex ignored him, venting his anger, the boy he hit looked away once he caught his eye. That boy ignored the second hit too - because Alex could be crueler, a hit from a rock was hardly something to whine about.

"I said don't!"

Alex pivoted quickly and hit Hamish high on the cheek with a rock- Hamish made a high pitched sound of alarm and fell like a stone from his perch to the concrete. It happened so fast, Alex actually choked on his breath and ran to Hamish who was in a heap, whimpering, and nursing his cut face. "Hamish I-"

Hamish managed to push the boy away; tears in his eyes, sniffing to hold back a sob. He was built delicately, and he bruised like a peach. That hard fall was sure to leave marks later, not to mention the cut on his face. Alex tried to grab him again and Hamish jerked away.

"Stop." Concern quickly hopped to frustration which bled into anger. It wasn't a secret Alex had a temper, and he was rubbish with expressing himself like a normal person. "Stop it." But Hamish got up, grabbed at the bar above him for support and wouldn't look at Alex. "I'm trying to help stop being a baby." He snapped.

"Well, e-excuse me if I don't want y-your help," He warbled, wiping furiously at his eyes, "You just threw a rock at me!" But it came out more of a keen than a yell and he buried most his face in his scarf to avoid looking at Alex with his (surely) pathetic expression.

"It wasn't that bad."

"Oh?" Hamish chirped, incredulous, "You would know?"

"Let me just check, you're probably fine."

"I hurt everywhere." Hamish admitted and instead of cowing to Alex's request, he began walking across the playground and towards the school.

"Where are you going?"

"The nurse. I'm going home."

"No! I can fix it! Let me fix it!"

"Go away!"

They were running now; or, Hamish was running and Alex was chasing. He barely made it in the school when the larger boy shoved him into the lockers. Students(the few in the halls) scattered, and Hamish had to brace himself on the locker and turn to his assailant.

Alex frowned, standing in the wake of his second mistake. He ran a hand through his close cropped hair, sighed, and looked rather desperate for the right thing to do. "I didn't mean it."

"Which part?" Hamish snapped back.

"All of it!" He yelled.

Hamish sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "My dad was right, I shouldn't be your friend."

Alex's brow furrowed, he took a step towards Hamish(his posture edged, offensive). "Don't say that."

"I don't want to be your friend Alex Moran-Moriarty! You're a freak!"

Alex punched Hamish, split his lip; Hamish tasted blood and fought back. They bit, scratched, and shoved each other like animals in the hallway.

Hamish was taken home by John who arrived almost immediately(Hamish felt bad, he knew his dad had been working that day). John told Alex to never go near Hamish again, and Alex yelled every bad word he knew at John.

It had been a terrible day.

Hamish was sitting on the sofa, a mug of hot chocolate in his hands. John had tended to his cuts and bruises, got him comfortable in his favorite pajamas then turned on his favorite program. He did all this before he grabbed Sherlock by the crook of his arm and all but threw him into their bedroom. John was yelling, every now and then he could hear the deep muted tones of his father rebelling, but the words were few and far between Johns shouts.

Never, never again!

That boy will not set foot in this house-

No! Of course not Jim either, are you insane Sherlock? I've put up with enough-

Hamish turned up the volume on the TV. He didn't like that his heart was hurting more than his body. He had lost his only (sort of) friend today, his parents were fighting, and he hurt. He didn't like it, not any of it. He felt he was close to crying again with the door bell rang.

After a minute, where his parents didn't appear, he set his mug on the coffee table and walked over to the door. It was probably Mrs. Hudson, going to complain about the noise-

Alex.

Hamish was stunned quiet, hand on the door knob, nervous as he twisted it over and over, "What-?"

Alex stood still, there was something he was holding behind his back; he wouldn't look Hamish in the eye, kept staring at his feet. "I didn't mean it."

Hamish frowned, the words stuck in his throat. He didn't mean any of it either. He kept twisting the door knob.

"I got you this." Finally Alex drew his eyes up to Hamish's face, brandishing the mystery item from behind his back, in front of him. It was a blue pencil case with a bee pattern. It looked brand new.

"You stole that." It wasn't a question, but Hamish couldn't hide his smile.

"For you," Alex said, taking the softer look into consideration; Hamish wasn't mad. That was definitely a good sign. "You like bees. I thought of you."

"Thought of me while you stole that? You know I don't approve of theft." But Hamish had already taken the plastic case, was holding it fondly; there was a flush on his cheeks that accented the bruises.

"I'm apologizing."

"I haven't heard an apology."

"Hamish." Alex snapped, but caught himself when Hamish shot him a look. Even with how battered he looked-Hamish didn't flinch, he rarely cowed, and he was vocal enough to tell Alex off. That spirit, Alex liked it, but it was a bad thing. He knew it was a bad thing. They were like petrol and a match. Apart they'd live just fine, but together there would always be strife. Not even putting into account their families, it would just be better if this stopped.

But Alex couldn't walk away. Couldn't let Hamish leave. He just couldn't.

Instead he reached out, his hand on Hamish's face. He moved closer, Hamish stayed put. Alex traced his thumb under the other boys split lip. He frowned, "I'm sorry." Before Hamish could react, he leaned in, pressed their lips together and retreated.

A kiss to make it better.

It was something Hamish remembered then. His mother, her voice, that sentence. The kiss lasted less than a few seconds but Hamish still considered it his favorite of all Alex's kisses. John tried to forbid him from seeing Alex, but it only lasted a week. That pencil case lasted all through school. That fight was one of Hamish's most cherished memories; it was the catalyst that brought them closer together.


	5. Betrayal

Ninth grade is when a rumor started; circling around the high school and causing everyone to look at him differently.

Have you heard? Hamish is gay.

He could hear them, whisper, point; the girls would giggle, the boys would look down on him, shove him when he passed by.

I heard he's in love with that friend of his-

You mean his only friend?

The pretty boy, Alex something or other.

Hamish had endured the entire school day. Alex didn't show up, it was a good thing, because that rumor, well, it was what he had told Alex in confidence. The boy betrayed his trust and told the whole school a lie. He never said he was in love with him, no, never. He scoffed at himself; even if it might be true, he had only admitted that he thought he might be gay. That he might be having feelings towards someone of the same gender. That was it.

Alex was a dick about it, as Hamish thought he would be. No, he didn't care he was gay(both their parents were gay), but he made a point to exploit it, even tried to kiss him before busting up and prodding him about his 'crush'.

Gone were the years of their youth; Alex became popular, he had an easy time getting friends, an even easier time getting girls to fall for him. He was older, but he was hardly more mature. Whatever the reason, he had decided to tell everyone Hamish's secret, and even twist the truth by telling them all he was hopelessly in love with him.

Arrogant sod.

Love, really, no, never. Not in love, crush maybe, yes, definitely a crush. But hardly love. Maybe he was romanticizing their relationship too much; thinking of the years when they were kids, when cuddling and little kisses were just innocent affectionate gestures. They didn't mean anything, they had been children after all. He really needed to just move on, get him out of his head, he wasn't worth his time. Definitely not.

He should never have told him. Alex wasn't mature enough to handle it, obviously. Now he had to deal with all the flack from school on top of it.

He stomped up the steps to 221B, slammed open the door and threw his book bag on the couch.

"Hey there." Johns calm voice sounded from the kitchen and Hamish forced himself to be more composed. It wasn't like him to lose his temper. "What's wrong?"

"'Sorry," Hamish huffed, hanging up his coat, "Where's father?"

"At the morgue, Molly saved a severed foot for him." John took down a second mug from the cabinet and began to prepare tea for his son, "Come sit, tell me about it."

Hamish bit his lip, "I'd rather not."

"You're upset, talking would help. Or is it one of those teenager things?" John said jokingly.

Hamish rolled his eyes and took a seat at the table. The table was clean mostly, which was unusual. Sherlock must be off on another venture, lord knows what the kitchen will endure once he returned with that foot. He gingerly sipped the tea John placed in front of him, looking at his dad that now sat in the seat across. "It's just, a rumor, and, I don't like that everyone knows. It wasn't supposed to happen like that and, I'm just," Hamish frowned into his mug, "I hate Alex."

Alex.

Well, that explained enough already.

John's expression pinched, it was no secret he wasn't fond of the boy(or the family), but he had tried to be accepting over the years. It was Hamish's only lasting friendship. "What did he say?"

Hamish flushed, "That's, that's not so much important. It's just that he said it, and he told me he wouldn't tell."

John couldn't help his smile, "Do you have a crush on someone?"

"Dad!"

John chuckled, "I'm sorry, go on."

"Is it," Hamish looked back at the table, "Is it really that obvious?"

"So, he told everyone you had a crush on someone?" He said gently, "Is that it? That's not the worst thing, it might even help you along with this person. You know, hearing it around school. Maybe he did you a favor?" Though, he didn't want to defend Alex, not at all, but it could have helped. Hamish was shy when it came to his emotions, and he had never had a crush before.

"No, it's not," Hamish's brow pinched, "The whole school knows I'm gay now, and I mean, I didn't say who I liked but Alex was being a dic-"

"Language."

"A, uh, jerk, and he told the school I was in love with him."

"But you do have a crush on a boy?"

"Well, yeah."

"But not Alex?" John asked, sounding a little too hopeful.

"Well, no, it uh, it is Alex, but I'm hardly in love! And I didn't want everyone knowing! I didn't even want him knowing." He ended in a grumble.

Well, that was an unfortunate turn up. John shifted the mug back and forth between his hands. "So, what are you going to do about it? Now that everyone knows?"

"I don't know. I don't want to talk to Alex anymore."

"So you don't like him anymore?"

"Well," Hamish sighed, "Not right at this moment."

"You two should probably resolve this."

John was always the voice of reason, but he didn't want to hear reason right now. He opened his mouth to protest when the doorbell rang. Sherlock wouldn't have rang the bell, Mrs. Hudson would have rapped in that gentle way of hers, and Mycroft would have tapped the door with his umbrella. There were rarely strange visitors(when not scheduled via email appointment); Lestrade didn't have a defined way of knocking, but obviously they were both caught up in who it could be, that the bell rang again and John was the first to his feet.

Hamish craned his body back to look around the corner when the door opened. "Hamish doesn't want to see you right now-"

Hamish's heart skipped and he got to his feet, ready to bolt; torn between wanting to confront Alex himself or be a coward and let John do it.

"Oh bloody hell, you know I don't like you coming here; and is that blood? Do you seriously have blood on you right now?"

Jim pushed his way through first, yanking Alex through by his wrist. Moriarty did in fact have blood splatter on his face(though mostly wiped off) and a residual pattern on the collar of his white under shirt. "I'm assuming the detective is out?" He said, though his expression went from impish to bored in a second. He offered a mocking wave to Hamish and turned back on his heel to address John. "Don't get yourself so worked up, I came here to force Alex to apologize."

John was red in the face as he shut the front door, running a hand through his hair as he tried to calm himself. "Why do you care about that?"

"Well," He gestured to himself, "As you've noticed, I've gotten myself all dirty because my boy here couldn't stop whining about Hamish."

"I wasn't whining." Alex grumbled, flushing and avoiding looking at Hamish; he hadn't even tried to break Moriarty's loose hold on him.

"You were," Jim edged, though continued speaking at John, "So, I need to keep his head in the game if you understand? A useless employee is a dead one." He said in that playful lilting tone of his, he dropped Alex's wrist and smiled that toothy predator smile, "So," He clapped, "Kiss and make up or whatever you two need to do, or should I just forego all this and take Alex out back and shoot him?"

Jim was just heartless enough to mean every word he said; and it had been too many years going for John to be appalled by his parenting skills(or lack there of). It was no secret Alex was in the trade, but John didn't like it being brought up because then he had to face the reality that Alex, as young as he was, had murdered people. Worse than that, tortured people too. But, that was hardly the debate at the moment, it was literally Alex's life or death that was held taut in the air around them.

"It was just a rumor, I didn't mean for it to get out of hand."

"Might want to try a bit harder." Jim prodded, glancing back to John, "So, when will Sherlock be back?"

"He's not coming home tonight."

"Don't lie," Jim rolled his eyes, "So protective, are you so worried I'll snatch him away from you?" He cooed.

The sound of their parents conversing became background noise. They had moved off into the living room when Jim began to wander; poking at this and that, grabbing hold of their wedding picture, ignoring the angry notes in John's voice.

Hamish tugged at the hem of his shirt nervously when Alex came over to him. The boy was growing like a weed, he was already nearly a foot taller. "Is that true?"

"Is what true?" He tucked his hands in his jean pockets, looking embarrassed.

"That you were talking about me, that you were so distracted you made your father upset?"

"Yeah, well, I don't like when we fight."

"You always start our fights."

"Actually, it's you, if you weren't such a bitch about everything."

Hamish huffed and made to leave the room-

Alex grabbed his arm, forced him still. Hamish looked up at him with an expression mixed between hurt and anger. Alex just smiled at him, pressed his thumb to the wrinkle in his forehead, "Stop. I didn't mean it. I'm trying to apologize. You know I'm bad at that."

"You're bad at a lot of things. Especially at being a friend." But, the anger was draining, Alex let his arm go and he stayed put.

"I know," He conceded, "But you'll always forgive me."

"Will I?"

"Ah," Alex laughed, "You want to see my father gut me, is that it?"

Hamish frowned, "No, but I'm still upset."

"I know. I'll make it up to you." He said gently, looking off to where Jim was sitting in Sherlock's chair. "Friends?"

Hamish nodded, holding back the words he really wanted to say. "Friends."


	6. Apology

"I have a plan."

That was the phrase that damned him.

Alex appeared on the fire escape outside his window; rapidly tapping on the glass hard enough he was almost sure his parents would have been able to hear it. He had ushered the energetic teenager inside his room; having tried to hush him, but it was impossible to get a handle on him when he was like this.

"I've been thinking-"

Which was another no-good phrase in hindsight.

But, the meat of the matter was; Alex had a plan, and it involved helping Hamish impress his father. How, he had no idea, but at two in the morning he wasn't working at full speed. So, he got dressed and let his friend spirit him away down the rusted metal stairs outside his window, letting Alex catch him at the bottom.

There was no point asking where they were going; not that Hamish was processing much with Alex holding his hand like that(he forgot to let go after the catch, not that Hamish was complaining). It was hardly a secret he had a crush on the other boy. So, he let himself be tugged enthusiastically through the streets of London, feeling a little like his dad when Sherlock ran off like a whirlwind.

It was actually kind of fun; and the thought of breaking a house rule and sneaking out at night, had his blood pumping.

Eventually they made it to an abandoned building a few blocks down from Baker Street. Alex finally let go as they navigated the dimly lit spaces. A lot of the inside was broken up, unable to use the lift they had to climb over three flights of stairs before Hamish finally heard something. Beyond the sound of rain, it didn't really sound like much at first. Kind of like something hitting metal, over and over, really faint. There was also some indistinct muffled sounds; maybe an animal? Nothing in London was big enough to harm, but a large dog or a vicious cat could definitely cause a fright. "What's that?" He heard himself ask, grabbing at Alex's jacket sleeve and stalling their ascent.

"Your surprise." Alex said, offering a lopsided grin before he continued upward; the steady groan of each stair drowning out the mystery noise.

He didn't like the sound of that; no, actually, the idea Alex got him something had his heart in his throat-but the actual sound of the 'surprise' itself was curious, if not a little scary. "I can't keep pets," Hamish fretted, "Dad says Father would just experiment on them, try and dissect them."

"It's not a pet."

"It sounds like one."

"Your deductive skills really are crap, lucky you have me to help."

They were finally on the fifth floor, the ground was covered in white dust; broken by boot impressions, Hamish recognized the footprints, they belonged to Alex, but there was also a long drag mark. Like he had carried in something heavy, indistinct, almost looking like it was pulled in a sack. There had been resistance, a fresh chunk of wood was broke loose from the doorframe; whatever it was, it was big, and it had struggled.

His surprise was alive? But, it wasn't a pet?

"How are you going to help?" He finally asked, the question he should have probably asked first but he was foolish and he realized he probably would have followed Alex anywhere regardless. But, that sinking feeling in his stomach was starting to make him sick; he didn't think whatever was on the other side of that door would be very good.

Alex noticed Hamish's hesitation, the shorter boy having stopped at the top of the steps; his ethereal green eyes rooted to the door. He let out a heavy sigh, waving his hand in front of his friend's face, "Don't get stupid on me now," He said, clapping a hand on his shoulder, "It suddenly came to me, yeah? How I could help you, so I'm trying to do you a favor so don't go being chicken shit on me. Nothing is going to happen, I'm right here. Okay?"

Hamish bit his lip, trying to focus on Alex, on the heavy weight of his hand on his shoulder. He tried to let Alex ground him, but he felt suddenly terrified of the unknown noises in the other room. He started to feel like a kid(he was just a kid), he wanted to text his dad on his mobile, knowing he'd find him, he'd pick him up, he'd be safer then. "I want to go home." He said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"No, no, no, no," Alex said fiercely, "Don't ruin it!" His grip tightened and Hamish winced.

He took in deep breaths; trying to calm himself, trying to act brave and composed. He didn't want to make Alex angry, but he didn't want to be there anymore either. "Quick," He cleared his throat, "Be quick, okay?"

Alex smiled(which looked a lot better than his scowl from a moment before) and let Hamish go, his hand on the doorknob. "Uh, you gotta stay out here, just for a few minutes, okay? Gotta get everything ready."

Hamish nodded meekly, tucking his hands in his pockets and trying to be unbothered. Something was wrong, this was wrong-

Alex disappeared behind the door.

When Alex left Hamish took the opportunity to run away. He hadn't entirely meant to, he wanted to be brave like his friend wanted him to; but he found himself already down two flights of steps by time he realized he was getting further and further away from Alex and that maybe he didn't trust the boy as much as he wanted to, and maybe he was just a little afraid of what had been behind the door, and maybe even afraid of Alex.

Back out on the empty London streets Hamish just kept running, his sneakers slapping the wet pavement in frantic strides. He half-expected Alex to run out and chase him, but the boy wasn't behind him, he was alone in the dark foggy night as he set his sights on home.

He had nearly sprinted the entire way back(mostly, catching his breath with quick walking strides before speeding off again), he was completely out of breath when he tried the handle to his home and realized it was locked. Of course, he forgot they went down the fire escape from his room. He was too short to get back up it without Alex's help, so now he was stuck outside a locked flat.

What if Alex came back?

Hamish bit his lower lip, taking out his phone and frantically texting his dad. He realized after the fourth text that John probably had his phone off, it was nearly four in the morning and his family had been safe at home, so he probably saw no reason to keep it on. Hamish redirected his efforts to sending a text to Sherlock because his phone was always on, waiting for a case, he just had to hope he wouldn't just disregard the message.

He was stuck on the steps for nearly ten minutes before he heard the lock snap out of place and the door opened to reveal a very tired-looking John. "What're you-?" His brow furrowed, reaching out to usher his child inside, "Sherlock said you sent him a text, what's going on? Why are you outside?" His voice was rough with sleep, after locking the door he gently pushed at Hamish's lower back to get the boy up the steps to their flat where the door had been left wide open. "Something happen?"

"No," Hamish said, "Not really." It was no secret John didn't like Alex, he didn't forbid their friendship, but there was hostility there. Hamish didn't want to give John any more ammunition against his friend.

"Not really?" John scoffed, "I'm not an idiot Hamish, I may not be able to figure out where you've been just by looking at you, but it's obvious something happened. You're white as a sheet, what spooked you?"

John went into the kitchen to prepare tea, and Hamish sank down into Sherlock's arm chair. He was antsy and he wanted to just go back up and sleep, pretend this never happened. God, how was he going to face Alex tomorrow? He'd be mad. "Alex came and snuck me out." He blurted, his face red as he looked down at his wet shoes.

John made a noncommittal noise to Hamish's admission, he figured as much. That Alex was trouble. "Where did you go?" He asked calmly, waiting for the kettle to boil, staying in the kitchen to give his nervous son space.

"I don't know," Hamish said, "Some building."

"What happened there?"

Hamish bit his lip, "I want to go to bed."

John's brow furrowed, he poured the tea, still trying to wake up, but he could hear the distress there. Hamish didn't want to talk about whatever had happened, but unfortunately Sherlock couldn't be bothered to get himself out of bed, so John would have to deduce this alone. "Talking about it could help." He prompted, knowing he would get nowhere if he pushed, but he didn't want to drop it either. He was bothered by seeing Hamish upset that him sneaking out; well, that was a broken rule he could overlook because obviously Hamish had learned his lesson, though he was sure in an entirely different way.

"I really want to sleep." He tried again, but didn't make a move to bolt from the room, which John took as a good sign. It meant Hamish did want to talk, but probably didn't know where to start. He put his tea out for him, smiling gently, and finally Hamish took it, gave a small sip and looked up at John with those eyes that reminded him so much of Sherlock.

"I know," John said, "But, it might help you sleep better, if you told me. He didn't try and hurt you did he?"

Hamish balked, and John knew he said the wrong thing. "Alex wouldn't!" Which was sort of true, not intentionally anyway, never intentionally. "He just, he said he was going to help me," He flushed, "Help me impress father so I went out with him, he said he had a surprise for me."

John sank down in his armchair, trying to relax but he couldn't. "What surprise?"

"I don't know," Hamish said, "I didn't wait. I thought it might be an animal or something, I didn't understand how he was going to help me, but when he went into that room and I heard all that noise and I swear-"

"Slow down," John said, his heart stuttering in his chest, surely it couldn't have been- "Take a deep breath, that's it, calm, now keep going. What was it?"

"I think," Hamish looked thoroughly afraid and John's heart lurched, "I think he had a person in there. I think I heard, I heard someone," His eyes were wet, "Crying." He managed to whisper, and Hamish had never looked so young. He was not innocent to bloodshed and murder, his father was a consulting detective after all, and he had spent his youngest years in Irene's lackadaisical care under the watch of two psychopaths. His mother had been murdered; and maybe that's what triggered his impulse to run, his primary fear. He had heard the sobbing and it made him remember things he could barely remember. The trauma he hadn't faced before had resurfaced, read plain as day on Hamish's face and John felt so helpless.

He was angry, beyond pissed, but being angry wouldn't help Hamish cope right now. John set down his cup and walked over to Hamish, gently he put his hand on his mop of curls and smoothed the bulk of his palm down until he cupped his face. He knelt in front of him, "Are you going to be alright?"

"Don't," Hamish choked, finally the tears fell and a real sob burst from his throat from John's touch, "Don't tell anyone. Don't report him, please don't send Alex to jail. He wanted to help me, he really did, I feel awful, I shouldn't have ran but I-!" Hamish choked between childish tears, trying to scrub them away as John soothingly cooed him calm.

John never hated Alex more than he did in this moment; seeing his son's innocent affection, and realizing the other boy was just as damaged as the parents that raised him. He realized in that moment, a friendship between Hamish and Alex just could not happen. It couldn't go on, it would destroy whatever humanity Hamish had in him. "It's okay Hamish, no one is going to do anything tonight, just calm down, it'll be alright. Do you want to sleep in our bed?" He said.

Hamish shook his head, trying to control himself, scrubbing at his eyes to stop crying. "No, no, I'll be okay. I promise. I'm sorry for sneaking out."

John offered a watery smile, "Don't worry about that. Off with you then, you need a nice rest. You'll be better in the morning." He'd have a long talk with Sherlock tonight.

"Thank you." Hamish said before he got himself out of his father's armchair and set off down the hall to his room. He went inside and slowly closed the door, bolting it shut and looking into the dimly lit bedroom. He just needed a rest, a rest and he'd be just fine and- The window was slightly open, he wasn't sure if he closed it, but upon closer inspection he found a note.

It had a blood stain on the corner, scrawled in messy handwriting: I'm sorry.

Hamish smiled, closed the window and went to bed feeling lighter than before. They'd be okay.


End file.
